Liberation (A Walking Dead One-Shot)
by OmegaPhaedra
Summary: Simple one-shot, focusing around a nameless woman, injured, alone, and dying inside a janitor's closet in Atlanta. Warning: Suicide, implied gore. Nothing too graphic.


She knows she's done for. Her limbs ache, the infection ravaging every vein, every muscle, every cell in her body as she hobbles over to the janitor's closet. The moans behind her are barely heard - her heartbeat is too strong, the rushing current of blood drowning out everything. The door is opened and slammed behind her, blue eyes scanning the darkened room frantically as her head lolls to the side, a pained groan escaping her paling lips. She rips a set of large wooden shelves off the wall and forces it against the door. That should hold them off for awhile. Not long though. She pants and clutches her leg.

It had been eight days. Or maybe it had been only a few hours. Hell, she didn't know. Time was no longer important in this world. Surviving was her main concern. She didn't have the luxury of knowing the time of day.

She sits on the dirty pile of clothes in the corner of the small closet, whimpering as she pulls her leg off the cold concrete. The fabric is torn, having been ripped by jowls dripping with black sludge - dirty, bloody, putrid. It smells of disease. Reeks of it. She is drenched in that god awful scent of death that no one could escape nowadays. Fresh air was almost unheard of when you were holed up in a big city. God, how she longs for fresh air, too be out in the open, away from this hell. Speaking of hell..

She examines the wound, all red and angry and puss-filled, oozing green from the jagged teeth marks imbedded in her flesh. Had the bite been lower on her leg, she would have used her hatchet to cut her limb off and then thrown it to those creatures in an attempt to escape. But it was on her upper thigh, close to her hip. Amputating from that high up without proper bandaging or cauterizing methods would mean death. Fuck, she'd rather die by bleeding out that being ripped apart by those god damn cannibals.

Her vision blurs, and she releases another pained groan as her head hits the concrete wall behind her. Her bones are beginning to shatter. She feels like they're breaking inside her, splintering and lodging into her muscles and skin. It's too late now. She's known this for awhile. She knew it the instant her other leg got sore, and then her right arm, followed by the left. Now her head hurt, her heartbeat echoing painfully in the soon to be vacant neo-cortex.

"I had one hell of a run.." She wheezes, startled by the raspy sound of her own voice. Blue eyes widen, brown hair falling into a face that was rapidly loosing color. She fingers the gun tucked in the waistband of her pants. Her options are swiftly narrowing. There really were only three, now.

Option 1: Let death come. Wake up as one of those walking freaks.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't considering it. She really didn't want to risk missing, grazing her cerebellum, ending up paralyzed on the floor, but still feeling pain. No.. She didn't want that.

Option 2:. Blow her brains out.

She thinks over her previous reasoning against this option. Though, it would be quick. A quick way out. Quick was good.

Option 3: Let the things eat her.

She shudders at the thought, and at the chills now biting at her skin. She feels her stomach clench, and groans as she hunches over and dry-heaves. Nothing comes up, save for some air and stomach acid. A little blood. She wipes her mouth and considers her options, crying out in pain when she shifts, agony radiating up her frame. Thousands of wasps were attacking her skin, jabbing her eyes, eating away at her organs. More vomiting, with more blood. Red splatters the floor, copper and sickness mixing together. The grotesque scent perforates her nostrils, making her wretch once again.

She's only a matter of minutes now. She makes a quick decision and bites down on her lower lip, stifling her moans of pain as she adjusts and grabs her gun. Dirty, lithe fingers check the chamber of her Beretta, finding one lone bullet sitting inside. Tears fill her eyes, and she can't decide if they are from joy, or anguish. Maybe a mixture of both.

Everything sounds like it's underwater. The banging on the door, which opens slightly every few seconds, stopped only by the large wooden shelves she had shoved in front of it. The Dead's groans and snarls make her clench her jaw. She needs to do it. She doesn't want to die like the others. She doesn't want to be eaten alive.

Whimpering as she raises the gun, she places it into her mouth. Hot trails of salty water sting her hurting cheeks, dripping onto the soiled fabric of her shirt.

"I've had one hell of a run." She repeats. Her words are muffled by the barrel. Her eyes slide shut. She thinks of home, of her grandmother's homemade sweet tea, of her baby brother playing on the tire swing in their backyard. She thinks of her first love, of her handsome husband and their beautiful daughter. She sees them, sitting on the porch of their house, embracing, wide grins on their faces. Her husband holds out his hand.

'_Come home, honey. We miss you.'_

'_Please, mommy?' _

They were waiting for her. They called to her. She could hear them, hear their wonderful voices, full of life, full of promise, urging her home.

Her body trembles, and she chokes back a sob. _Home.. _She wants to go home.

One squeeze was all it took.

A loud pop, the sound of something wet hitting concrete.

She falls, limp, on the floor, once bright eyes dull and dilating. Her body convulses once, then a second time as it shuts down. As her consciousness recedes, she sees the door open, sees the blurred faces of the infected, just before a bright light pierces her vision.

Death floods through her, replacing the fire in her veins with sweet, sweet liberation. Her last tear falls as the corpses reach her now lifeless body, her final breath escaping her inert lungs with a single syllable on its wake.

**Home**.

* * *

**This is the first one-shot I've ever done. I wanted to write this after I watched season two. I thought of Sophia, what it would be like to die alone, except I wanted to try and capture what it would be like to die in a situation such as this, where you've already lost everything you loved. I tried to write one about Sophia, but I ended up re-writing it about five times, and got so frustrated with it that I deleted it and focused on this instead. I might try again in the future, I might not.. Who knows? **

**Anyway, thank you for reading. :)** **I would appreciate a review, just letting me know how it is.**

**Have a great night!**

**~OmegaPhaedra**


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